


Fifty-Three More Things To Do In Zero Gravity

by cormallen



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Crack, Multi, Prostitution, Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-23
Updated: 2010-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-06 15:13:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cormallen/pseuds/cormallen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Communication and Mediation Specialist Jensen signs on with a space-faring crew without thoroughly reading his contract.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fifty-Three More Things To Do In Zero Gravity

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for tinkering with it for me, [](http://mickeym.livejournal.com/profile)[**mickeym**](http://mickeym.livejournal.com/) and [](http://serotonin-storm.livejournal.com/profile)[**serotonin_storm**](http://serotonin-storm.livejournal.com/)!

In retrospect, Jensen thinks, popping the cap on a new bottle of lube, he really should have known better.

Definitely from the interview. Maybe even from the moment he first saw the ad on the holo, flashing 3-D text promising excitement, adventure and a generous signing bonus. "Serve your President and see everything the 'verse has to offer," it said, instructing him to contact Recruiting Agent McCoy at the Alliance Embassy Compound on Gardariki VII – that is, if he was a patriotic, dedicated go-getter. And maybe _patriotic_ was a word Jensen thought best reserved for marches, parades and the referendum on the proposed Droidtech Act, but he could do _dedicated_ and _go-getter_, no problem. And his cube lease was running out in two weeks with no other prospects to consider.

Recruiting Agent McCoy – "Call me Sandy," she said, offering him a soft, perfectly manicured hand – was tiny, pretty and exquisitely perfumed. Something sweet and floral, like jasmine or roses – not that Jensen knew from flowers. This close to the Core, flowers were for chemists and the Preserve Exhibition Gardens – he hadn't been, but he'd caught the free preview of the guided holo-tour on late night wireless.

Recruiting Agent McCoy's nail polish was a delicate, silvery pink. "It changes with my mood," she said, smiling indulgently, when she noticed him looking. "Drink?"

"It's 0930," Jensen stammered, sitting down on her black leather couch.

"0930? Not on Belogor," she scoffed, and tipped the carafe. "Not on Kora. Not on Theta Dioscuri. Have you ever been?"

"To Theta Dioscuri? N-no," Jensen said, reluctantly accepting the heavy, frosted glass.

"Would you like to?"

Ice cubes clinked in the glass. Recruiting Agent McCoy's nails shimmered, flashing up a deep, burnished gold.

"I. Well, when you put it that way, Ms. McCoy," he said, and she moved in closer, smile wide and white and perfect.

"_Sandy_, Jensen. Now, let's talk about your qualifications."

 

\-----

 

Jensen squeezes the bottle, lets the lube coat his fingers, slippery and warm on his skin. He's never used the self-warming stuff before, but Danneel complained that the regulation KY gave her a rash, "and trust me, Speccie: that ain't the kind of place you want a rash, you get me?"

"Right," Jensen agreed carefully, turning his face from the pillow, and she sighed, shook her head. Her hair brushed over the small of his back, flitting and ticklish.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, don't give me that forlorn, little lost rathkin pup look. Just tell Misha he needs to pick up some Temp-O-Glide on the next restock. We got the Derana stop in four standard days."

"Misha – Dr. Collins? You mean the medical officer?"

"A-yup," Danneel nodded, nudging Jensen over onto his back. "What, you think the medic's job is just dispensing bactadine and bitching about the levels of protein in our diets?"

"I, uh – nguhh – well, to tell you the truth, I hadn't really thought about it. Ohh," Jensen whimpered as she tugged on his nipple clamps.

"Too tight?"

"No, just – fuck!"

"Don't worry, sweetheart," Danneel grinned, licking her lips. "We'll get there."

Yeah. He definitely should've known. Recruiting Agent McCoy had told him that the Saiga was an L-class corvette, "fast little ship – plenty of room for the crew, of course. But it's not a freighter or a dreadnought. You're not signing up to haul cargo or be the first line of defense."

"So what _am_ I signing up for?"

"Communications. Diplomatic support. Peaceful conflict resolution, maybe the occasional escort mission. Commander Morgan works closely with the Planetary Alliance Liaison and Galactic Free Trade. Trust me, this isn't a red or even an orange level environment. The liability release agreement is only 4 terats long," she said, and slid his CV chip into the reader. "Your language count's longer than that. You really speak Hthath?"

"Er, well, nobody _speaks_ Hthath, of course," Jensen explained hastily, "but I can distinguish between the six basic vibration patterns and pick up on most of the common nuances. It's –"

"Excellent. Nuance recognition is a key skill in a Communication and Mediation Specialist's arsenal," Recruiting Agent McCoy said with a reassuring smile. "Could you do me a favor, Jensen, and walk for me?"

"Walk?"

"Yes," she said, waving her hand. "Across the room, or corner to corner, whichever you're more comfortable with."

"Uh. Alright." He stood up, puzzled, and crossed the room, couch to Sandy's desk and back again, stopping to look out of the large picture window, twin suns shining brightly over the spires of Gardariki Central. "Like that?"

"Oh, yes. You'll – that'll do just fine. Now, tell me: when did you have your last check-up? The Planetary Alliance takes the health of all its employees very seriously."

 

\-----

 

Jensen starts himself off with two fingers, sweet, sudden burn that makes his knees wobble, and he shifts, leans more heavily onto the dresser. It's bolted to the wall, just like all of the Saiga's furnishings; it can take the strain and more besides. He closes his eyes and imagines Jared crowding him into the cool metal, Jared's legs bracketing his, hot breath on the back of his neck. Jared's too-long hair tickling at his cheek as Jared preps him, smooths the lube inside, opens Jensen up for his cock. He's never seen Jared naked, but he's lost count of the times he's pictured this, Jared's wide, bare chest pressed solid against his spine, Jared's heavy cock nudging between his thighs.

Jensen whimpers and pushes in a third finger. It's gonna happen today, or he's the worst Communication Spec in the 'verse, hands down.

"A Communication and Mediation Specialist is an integral part of the unit," Recruiting Agent McCoy had explained, pouring herself a second glass. "The Saiga's gone two deployments without one – so the crew's starting to get a bit antsy. Believe me: you'll have a warm welcome."

"Isn't – " he'd started, curious why the crew had been short a Spec twice in a row, but McCoy's cool, soft fingers were suddenly brushing over his cheekbone, trailing up to the corner of his left eye, and Jensen shivered.

"If you don't mind me asking," she purred, "who did your ocular implants? They're incredible."

"That's not – I – they're not implants," he said, McCoy's sharp, floral scent making his mouth water. "That's my natural eye color."

"A green like that? Like I said: incredible," she nodded and kissed him. If he'd been looking, he would have seen Recruiting Agent McCoy's nails flash from gold to wine-dark red and darker, but her lips were brandy-sweet, hot and slick, and Jensen stopped paying attention.

 

\-----

 

Jensen met the Saiga at Gardariki North Port, watching it land, sleek and smooth and sharp, into the hangar bay. His wrist itched mercilessly, a constant reminder of where they'd put in his new checkpoint transmitter, identifying him to scanners as Diplomatic Auxiliary Support. He tried to resist picking at the skin, the little square of the chip visible, bumpy, between the blue lines of veins.

"It'll sink after a few days; won't even know it's there," Recruiting Agent McCoy had reassured him after he'd put his thumbprint to the contract. "The Saiga's due back in two days. Sergeant Harris will meet you at the port checkpoint, get you all settled in."

He packed up the few things still left in his cube – his holo collection, a Sattivya pronunciation and accent guide, the battered illustrated flipchart of Hthath ceremonial bows. The rest, meticulously sealed in rectangular bins, had already left for the storage facility.

"That's right, I forgot to tell you," Recruiting Agent McCoy had explained, "you'll have access to a personal storage unit on the C level for the duration of your deployment, so there's no need to get a house sitter or put anything up for auction. Insurance up to eighty percent of face value – not too shabby! Oh, and your signing bonus goes directly into your account after six months. On behalf of the Planetary Alliance, I'm pleased to welcome you to the team, Jensen."

Sergeant Danneel Harris turned out to be a tall, gorgeous redhead with ten perfect kill stripes sewn onto her tight zipped flight suit.

"You're Jensen? Nice. I'm Danneel. That's Chad, the second gunny – "

"You can be 'first gunny', if that floats your muffin. I'm a Battle Station Control Operator," Chad interjected, and Danneel shrugged.

"Yeah, whatever. I shoot stuff. So do you. It goes boom."

A bit later on, Jensen found out that in addition to never using the term _gunny_ Chad also liked head and hated that Jensen's hair was too short to get a proper grip. He liked some teeth to it, small scrapes over sensitive skin, and Jensen's fingers up his ass along with Jensen's mouth on his dick, and he came hard, quick and easy. But that was later. There were introductions first and a tour of the ship decks, Jensen's luggage getting stowed away under his new bunk. He got a little nauseous when the Saiga broke atmo, much faster than the passenger transports he'd been on before, and Danneel patted his shoulder in reassurance.

"You'll get used to it. Trust me, it doesn't get much smoother than this. Aldis really knows his shit. Crew I ran with before, pilot couldn't land his way out of a wet paper bag. Ended up just settling into orbit and having everyone take the shuttles down; that got old real fast." She shook her head and brushed stray hair away from her forehead. "To be honest, though, I kinda wish Aldis was just a wee bit rougher, you know? He gets us out of too many good firefights."

Aldis truly was an incredible pilot. Jensen saw it for himself not five hours later, two Covenant Furies locked onto their tail, flashes of turret fire beaming through the black, red and merciless. Danneel's voice, harsh and clipped, crackled through the Saiga's intercom system.

"Battle Stations to Flight Control, can't do shit about their shields. Never seen generators like they got, must be something new. Chad is trying to take readings."

"Check," Aldis gritted, flipping a series of switches on his panel. "Engaging evasive maneuvers, going for the jump gate. Everybody find something to hold on to and grab on tight."

The floor tilted, spun, and slid out from under Jensen's feet. He scrambled for balance, hands sliding vainly over the smooth metal wall, and pitched forward, right into the hard chest of someone tall, taller than him, wide-shouldered and wearing a plain gray flight suit.

"Didn't you hear him?" the giant said, guiding Jensen's hand to a bar protruding from the cabin's ceiling. "Hold on tight."

Just like the _oh shit_ handles on a swoop flier, Jensen thought, wrapping his fingers around the bar. Strangely, he didn't feel all that scared, even though Recruiting Agent McCoy had clearly lied to him. Covenant warships definitely rated an orange, maybe even a red environment. His tightly clenched knuckles bumped up against the giant's rough, warm skin, and then the floor started slipping again, everything turning and twisting and making his stomach flutter.

"Don't worry, Jensen," the giant grinned. "You don't mind if I call you Jensen, do you? Auxiliary Comm Spec Ackles is kinda a mouthful." He had dimples when he smiled and a little mole on his left cheek, and his brown hair was thick and messy and way too long to be regulation. "I'm Jared, by the way. Seriously, don't worry. Aldis is awesome at this. Everything's gonna be OK."

 

\-----

 

Jensen stops to add more lube, fingers slick and dripping with it, and shakes his head. Everything hadn't been OK after the Saiga finally zigged and zagged its way to the sector gate and jumped into hyperspace, where the short range Furies couldn't follow. That was when he found out that Aldis liked to fuck coming off the adrenalin rush of a firefight, Jared replacing him at the controls to run the autopilot – hyperspace flight didn't require much beyond entering the right coordinates into the grid. The Saiga's pilot was a good-looking man, all wiry grace and a mouth Jensen wouldn't have minded kissing – after drinks, maybe, or, hell, after at least some warning that he was about to get ambushed, pinned to the wall by Aldis's arms.

"Mmph," he managed indignantly, trying to pull away. "What in the seven hells are you doing?"

The pilot took an abrupt step back.

"Oh, fuck me. Not another one! When will people learn to read their damn contracts before they sign?" he sighed as Jensen brought a hand up to his own mouth, startled and confused and feeling for the print of Aldis's lips there.

"I – what?" he mustered up finally, trying to gauge whether the pilot was going to try to kiss him again, but Aldis just threw his hands up in exasperation and rolled his eyes.

"Do us all a favor, will you? Go back to your bunk and re-read all the fine print in your contract. Then go right ahead and talk to Morgan. You're going to have some arrangements to work out."

The arrangements turned out to be fairly simple.

"Look, kid," Commander Morgan said, "it's like this. Either we drop you off on the rock of your choice – out of the four next scheduled stops, mind, not the whole damn 'verse – and pretend we never saw you slip away, or you stay out the six months, now that you're more familiar with the job description. 'Course, personally, I'd prefer option B, but I ain't gonna force you. I'm not that kind of guy. Here, this is the flight schedule. Feel free to look it over."

Morgan had crinkles in the corners of his warm, brown eyes, laugh lines hiding in the salt and pepper scruff of his beard. His flight suit was undone at the neck, and Jensen could see fine droplets of sweat beading in the hollow, just asking to be licked away.

He glanced at the flight schedule: Bastion, Kora, Verthxt, Theta Dioscuri with its Preserve Exhibition Gardens all laid out in front of him in sharp, dark print, all his if he just said so. He turned the schedule over.

"If I, uh, were to stay," Jensen said, and swallowed, licked his lips. "Could I have a day or two to just – you know. Get acclimated?"

 

\-----

 

His dick is hard, precome glistening wet on the head. Jensen spreads it around with his fingers, drags his thumb over the tip and shivers. Walks up to the mirror and scrutinizes himself carefully, furrowing his brows at the dark purple bruise Danneel left on his thigh the day before. He kind of wishes it weren't there, although he likes Danneel, can almost imagine bringing her home – or, well, not to his home, since he doesn't have a cube anymore. And not to his parents' on Sarissa Prime, either, and not just because they're still holding a grudge over him running out a few years back to "see the 'verse" without leaving forwarding coordinates. After all, what would he tell them about how he and Danneel met?

He gives himself another careful once over and viciously rubs at a freckle on his nose like it's something he can wipe away. There's another hickey at the base of his throat, right where neck meets shoulder, but he can't rub it off any better than the freckles. At least Morgan has been too busy for him in the last week, Jensen muses, or he'd be lying flat in his bunk right about now, too sore to even contemplate anything else. Not that it's not good with Jeff, the way he pushes Jensen into the mattress and holds him down – but sometimes he thinks he should remind Morgan that he's not a droid. He's just not built for that kind of pounding on a too-regular basis. The first morning he woke up in the Commander's quarters, he marched straight to medical, wincing at the prints of Jeff's nails in his sides, at the persistent rolling ache in his ass.

Dr. Collins was doing yoga on the med bay floor, naked as the day he was born. A sleek black bird was inked into the small of his back, and above it, eight stars in blue, green and gold – which made him Altiri and possibly nobility, if Jensen remembered correctly, and also more flexible than he'd ever thought possible.

"We're double-jointed," Dr. Collins confirmed, pointing Jensen to a wall drawer. Upon inspection, it turned out to contain an array of buttplugs in increasing sizes. "The Commander, right? Pick out a few. You'll need them. There's lube and ointment in the cabinet to your left. The one in the purple bottle is my personal favorite."

It became Jensen's personal favorite a few minutes later, when Dr. Collins spread him out right on the yoga mat, purring filth in Altiri into his ear.

"I see you met Misha," Jared chuckled when Jensen left the med bay some time later still, clutching the purple bottle and an oversized clear spectraplast dildo in his hands.

"Uh. Yeah. Guess so," Jensen said, blushing. Jared was crouched down over a relay panel in the floor, prodding at a red wire with a pair of pliers. His long hair was pulled up into haphazard pigtails, the elastic bands a bright, electric pink.

"It gets into my eyes," Jared explained, like it was the most normal thing in the 'verse. "Hey, Jen, could you kick that wrench over in my direction? I think if I let go of this wire, we're gonna have ourselves a problem, and I haven't even had breakfast yet."

"Right," Jensen said, and picked up the wrench.

 

\-----

 

"What is it that you do around here, exactly?" Jensen asked after he saw Jared dishing up dinner in the mess, tightening the bolts on the med bay exam tables, wheeling in crates on their second supply stop and sweeping the floor in the gunners' quarters.

"Little bit of everything," Jared shrugged, stripping the sheets off of Jensen's bunk – laundry duty, he'd said, letting himself in with a universal pass card. "Not like I'm commissioned personnel. Jeff pretty much took me in out of the goodness of his heart, you know? Favor to my mama. You gotta flip your mattress more often, or the filler gets bunched up, and then they have to replace them, and they're custom made for this size bunk, and they gotta order them extra, and then Jeff yells at everyone for going over budget. Here, I'll do it for you this time. Clean sheets and pillowcase are on top of your dresser."

"Thanks," Jensen said, and gulped, watching the flex of muscles in Jared's tan arms.

"What's his deal?" he asked Danneel later, curled up into her side in her narrow bunk. "He keeps bringing me seconds whenever he has cooking duty, says I'm too skinny and that his mama would never let him live it down if he didn't get me properly fed."

Danneel shrugged, scratching her nails over Jensen's scalp, fingers tangling in the spikes of his hair. "He's Morgan's eleventh nephew, or fifth cousin, or some shit like that, you know, the kind of family you always have but never bother meeting, unless you're Jeff. He's got family all over the Mid-rim, I swear. Sends them all birthday cards, too, and visits every Festival. Jared's from somewhere out by the Border – they're having a shit time out there, what with the Covenant breathing down their necks. Jeff did a good thing for him, bringing him onto the crew. Why d'ya wanna know, anyway? You're not – oh, you totally are!" She trailed her hand down his face and bopped him on the nose, grinning. "Jensen li-i-kes Jared," she sing-songed, and Jensen scowled.

"I do not. It's just. Weird. Because he hasn't – you know? He'd rather bring me spice cookies."

"They're my mama's special recipe," Jared had explained, "but I had to tinker with them a bit, get them to fluff up right, what with the altitude. She makes 'em much better, of course, but I think I did pretty good. Come on, have another one. When I take you to meet her, she'll take it out of my hide if your ribs are showing."

"Yeah, right. What are you gonna tell her I do for a living?" Jensen'd snapped, biting into his second cookie. They were really good, rich with cinnamon, cloves and ginger, and he was pretty sure he was going to have a third and maybe even a fourth.

"Don't you worry about what I'm gonna tell my mama. You worry about eating your damn rations. And sleep. Are you getting enough sleep? You have this dark circle thing going on. That can't be healthy."

"Get the hell out of my room," Jensen had tried to say, but his mouth was full of spice cookie, and it didn't come out right at all.

 

\-----

 

Jensen washes the lube off his hands, thinks about it, and dims the lights a little. It's not candlelight, but it'll do. He hopes answering the door naked isn't gonna send Jared running, plate of cookies and all. Because if he can't have what he wants, he'll settle for the cookies and Jared's stupid pink-banded pigtails right in his face as he looks for non-existent dark circles and other evidence of Jensen's horribly unhealthy lifestyle. Come to think of it, he'll even settle for agreeing to meet Jared's mama, see for himself if her cookie recipe is really all that much better than Jared's ad hoc adaptation. But he really hopes he gets what he wants, now. They have nine standard hours until they land on Theta Dioscuri, and Jensen doesn't want to let Jared out of his bunk until they're ready to disembark.


End file.
